Not one alone; from each projecting cape Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. Like the great giant Christopher it stands And the great ships sail outward and return, They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. They come forth from the darkness, and their sails Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, And eager faces, as the light unveils, Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. The mariner remembers when a child, On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink; Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; The startled waves leap over it; the storm Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. A new Prometheus, chain'd upon the rock, "Sail on!" it says, “sail on, ye stately ships! DESERTER'S MEDITATION. "As Mr. Curran was travelling upon an unfrequented road, he perceived a man in a soldier's dress sitting by the road side, and apparently much exhausted by fatigue and agitation. He invited him to take a seat in his chaise, and soon discovered that he was a deserter. Having stopt at a small inn for refreshment, Mr. Curran observed to the soldier that he had committed an offence of which the penalty was death, and that his chance of escaping it was but small: Tell me, then (continued he), whether you feel disposed to pass the little remnant of life that is left you in penitence and fasting, or whether you would prefer to drown your sorrow in a merry glass?' The following is the deserter's answer, which Mr. Curran, in composing it, adapted to a plaintive Irish air."-Life of Curran by his son, W. H. Curran. Ir sadly thinking, with spirits sinking, Could more than drinking my cares compose, To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger, No more a rover, or hapless lover, My griefs are over-my glass runs low; SONGS OF OUR LAND. From one of the Irish newspapers where it appeared anonymously. SONGS of our land, ye are with us for ever: The power and the splendour of thrones pass away, Like our time-honour'd towers, in beauty ye stand; The bards may go down to the place of their slumbers, Her breathings are heard in the songs of our land. For they keep a record of those, the true-hearted, Of love unrewarded, and hope that was vain; And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave heart and hand; Songs of our land,-to the land of the stranger Ye went with the wanderer through distance and danger, When spring-time is come, with its fresh burst of glory, So, tuneful thro' ages, the harp of our nation A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW. By BARRY CORNWALL. A DEEP and a mighty shadow Across my heart is thrown, Like the cloud on a summer meadow, Where the Thunder-wind hath blown! The wild rose, Fancy, dieth, The sweet bird, Memory, flieth, And leaveth me alone, Alone with my hopeless Sorrow; I strive to awake To-morrow; I But the dull words will not flow! I call on the Past, to lend me A light from its eyes,-in vain! OLD TIMES. By GERALD GRIFFIN, OLD times! old times! the gay old times! And heard the merry Easter chimes My Sunday palm beside me placed, A heart at rest within my breast, And sunshine on the land! Old times! old times! It is not that my fortunes flee, Old times! old times! I've lived to know my share of joy, To feel a pang and wear a smile, To like my own unhappy isle, And sing the gay old times! Old times! old times! And sure the land is nothing changed, The flowers are springing where we ranged, The sally waving o'er my head Still sweetly shades my frame, But ah, those happy days are fled, Old times! old times! |